


Sunlight & Starshine

by Grundy



Series: Daughters of Celebrían [5]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:14:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 20,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28410723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grundy/pseuds/Grundy
Summary: The adventures of Buffy and the Scoobies afterThe Hobbitup until the War of the Ring. Mostly chapters were originally shorts written for Fic A Day.
Series: Daughters of Celebrían [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/357041
Comments: 44
Kudos: 44





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am finally catching up on posting several years' worth of Fic A Day. Which means there may be chapters added out of order at some point in the future. (I still have not written the infamous dragon incident. It belongs in here. As do some more adventures in Minas Tirith...)

It had been some months since Elrond had last entered Anariel’s library study – or as she called it, the _hangout_. He had not been in the room since before she accompanied Mithrandir on his trip to the Shire with one of the dwarves from the Quest of Erebor. Anariel had returned from that journey unusually subdued by her usual standards.

He had forbidden her to speak of rings outside Imladris several years ago, and was reassured to know that she obeyed. Mithrandir had told him so when he stopped at Imladris afterward.  
  
“Anariel was an attentive and polite guest who never brought up worrisome topics. And yet, old friend, it was plain to me there was something about Mr. Baggins that made her uneasy all the same,” the wizard had said thoughtfully. “Knowing what we do of your daughter, I would heed whatever warning is in her heart, however strange its source. I mean to make it my business to discover more about the history of our most excellent hobbit’s souvenir.”  
  
He had paused, and given one of his increasingly rare mischievous smiles.  
  
“If I did not, I doubt your daughter would remain obedient much longer.”  
  
Elrond had sighed.  
  
He called to mind the first discussion he’d had with his daughter on the subject, conducted in Mithrandir’s presence. It had ended abruptly when Anariel noticed both their rings, and then abstractedly murmuring the verse about rings to herself without being able to explain where she knew it from other than ‘Slayer’.  
  
“Three rings for the elven kings under the sky… though you are no elf, Mithrandir.”  
  
Elrond had gotten the disagreeable feeling that his middle daughter could easily guess where the third ring resided.  
  
That was when he had forbidden her to speak of rings, or to have anything to do with the one in the hobbit’s possession.  
  
He cannot shake the fear that if it proved to be the One Ring, his little one would insist on carrying it to Mordor to destroy it herself. He knew her well enough now to know that she would do her utmost to spare those dear to her any pain.  
  
When he entered her sanctuary that afternoon, she was – for a wonder – alone, lost in contemplation of the map the children have drawn on large sheet of paper fixed beneath an even larger panel of glass, which they have used to draw over and annotate the map.  
  
It was a map of Beleriand before the War of Wrath – before its destruction, before the land vanished beneath the waves. He could not read all that they have written, as even now they tended to write in the mode of California when it is meant only for themselves. Someone has carefully traced the modern coastline in a dark blue, while various sites that he recognized as elven strongholds were marked in green. Other sites were marked in a vivid red. He only realized when his eyes began to ignore the strange runes and focus only on the familiar map that red represented enemy fortresses and forces.  
  
There were also symbols he interpreted after a moment of thought as dragons and balrogs, and one that seemed to speculate on the location of Utumno.  
  
He wondered about the proliferation of symbols in the modern Iron Hills, Rhûn, and the Ash Mountains, as well as those further east in plain black.  
  
He waited patiently until Anariel acknowledged his presence. It had taken her some time to learn that it was the etiquette of Imladris not to interrupt one lost in thought, and even longer to realize that she herself might let her thoughts flow as they would instead of forcing them to an abrupt halt at any fresh arrival.  
  
“Ada,” she smiled.  
  
It warmed his heart that his tiny daughter, despite her years spent in another world, always brightened at his presence. Celebrían often laughed and told him Anariel had ever been daddy’s girl at heart.  
  
He nodded at the maps.  
  
“What is all this, sweet one?” he asked.  
  
She frowned slightly.  
  
“We’re learning history,” she explained. “And figuring out what we still don’t know.”  
  
Elrond has already heard from a pleased and gratified Erestor, who was astonished at the respectful and even rapt attention he has enjoyed from Anariel of late whenever he has been willing to indulge her in tales of both the First Age and the Second – and he has mentioned that her questions were not at all like Arwen’s or even the boys' had been.  
  
Glorfindel has had his brain picked about elven realms, but from Erestor, she and her mortal brother and sisters have been learning anything he will tell them about the fight against Morgoth, the enemy’s many horrible ‘creations’, and his tactics.  
  
She has asked any who took part and will speak of it to her about the War of the Last Alliance.

  
Elrond gazed at the map, trying to decipher anything more he could of it, and finally picked out one symbol that appeared on both the possible Utumno and in the east.  
  
“This is the symbol for don’t know?” he asked.  
  
She grinned.  
  
“That’s a question mark,” she replied. “So yes, but not always. Sometimes it’s don’t know, sometimes it’s maybe, sometimes it’s ‘what the heck is this even’.”  
  
He nodded, having grown accustomed to her style of explanation.  
  
“What do you not know about the East?” he asked. “There seem to be a great many _question marks_ there.”  
  
She sighed.  
  
“We really don’t know anything. All the maps we’ve looked at get so vague beyond Erebor and Mordor that it’s like no one really goes there. Dorwinion is better defined, probably mostly because of the wine-“  
  
Elrond noted that someone has drawn rough sketches of both grapes and wine glasses on the map to illustrate that point, along with what appeared to be an inebriated elf.  
  
“- but really most of the rest is so vague it’s almost useless.”  
  
“I suppose if you wish to know, you will have to go find out yourself,” Elrond said. “Do you really need the information?”  
  
He would prefer his daughter not go running off to the edge of the known world, though he did not doubt that if she does, the maps would be much more accurate on her return.  
  
She did not answer at once, and when she finally did, it was a more elvish answer than he expected from her – roundabout, approaching the question from the side.  
  
“Sauron was once Morgoth’s lieutenant,” she said thoughtfully. “And Smaug was a descendant of Ancalagon. There are still dragons to be found in the Withered Heath.”  
  
“You are not going dragon hunting,” Elrond said, though he spoke more in hope than with confidence, his worry rising.  
  
She shook her head.  
  
“No, not dragons. At least, not yet. Just information for now. Morgoth has been cast out of the circles of the world, but Sauron will use whatever he can of his inheritance from him. Dragons, trolls, orcs.”  
  
She did not say it, but he understood that she meant ‘in the war to come’. He cannot deny that it is coming, though he hoped it may yet prove further off than the lifetime of the mortal children his daughter calls family. Looking at the map, Elrond noticed with foreboding that there was another question mark near a sketch that is both shadow and flame.  
  
“Balrogs?” he suggested quietly.  
  
“Perhaps,” his daughter replied gravely. “We cannot account for them all, but it is possible that we have not read all there is to know. Mithrandir tells me that there are still troves of lore in Minas Tirith that might contain accounts lost to the elves and long forgotten by men. And of course, grandmother and grandfather may have more in their libraries.”  
  
“Or their memories,” Elrond gently pointed out. “Not all the knowledge of the elves has been committed to paper.”  
  
She nodded pensively.

He was startled to see how seriously she took all this. She was usually all smiles and good cheer, and the other children that called themselves Scoobies little different.  
  
She frowned.  
  
“Ada,” she began tentatively, “we do not mean to go right away, but would you support us if we wanted to journey to Gondor, and then further East?”  
  
Elrond felt certain that even if he did not, Galadriel would. She has ever looked on all about her with the eye of a commander, calculating how best to thwart the enemy. She will definitely approve of her granddaughter’s self-appointed mission to discover all there is to know of the enemy’s strength.  
  
Celeborn may share Celebrían’s reservations about allowing Anariel to charge headlong into danger – or even headlong into mortal realms – but he was no less fierce an opponent of first Morgoth and now Sauron than his wife. His support might be grudging, but it would be there.  
  
“I suppose I would,” Elrond said at last. “Though I advise you to start your research in Lorien before you venture to the White City – and I doubt that the Stewards of Gondor will be keen to open their archives to an elf-maid.”  
  
“Not even Anariel Dagnis?” she asked impishly, an amused gleam in her eye at the title that has swiftly become legend among Men. “I suspect we will find a way. We’re not all geniuses, but we’re pretty good when we put our heads together.”  
  
“When you say further East…”  
  
Elrond hesitated, unsure how to broach the subject without putting ideas into her head. But Anariel is perceptive enough to guess which way his thoughts have turned.  
  
“I do not mean to walk boldly into Mordor, Ada,” she said slowly. “But nor can I promise I will stay away from it.”  
  
She paused, and seeing him about to argue, she sighed.  
  
“I am not Tindomiel,” she explained, a tinge of regret in her voice. “I will never be the gentle elleth you can keep protected at home. I could not remain quietly in Imladris or the Havens to be kept safe when the truly dangerous days are upon us. The Slayer…”  
  
She looked him directly in the eye, and he understood that she meant to be more blunt with him than she has ever been on this subject.  
  
“The power of the Slayer is rooted in darkness, which means my choice is not _if_ I fight, but who I fight _for_. If I try to sit idle, that darkness will swallow me whole. I can’t sit this out.”  
  
She takes a deep breath.  
  
“I’m one of the peredhil, and apparently I count with the elves. So I fight for the world of elves and men. That’s my choice, the one that I get to make. I’m going to fight against Sauron. And I don’t think it’s a good idea to wait until the fight is upon us to find out what he’s got up his sleeve. If that means sneaking into Mordor or exploring Rhûn and far Harad, I need to do that while there’s still time.”  
  
He heard the thought she did not mean to share, the one she cannot bear to say out loud.  
  
_While_ they _still can. While the Scoobies are still with me._  
  
Elrond wrapped his arms around his child, aware that for some things there was no comfort in the circles of the world – he pushed his own such heartache firmly down into the little corner of his soul that will be empty until the remaking of the world – but unable to not try.


	2. Slayer, The

“So, do we all agree?”  
  
Buffy looked around the room.  
  
Xander was lounging on the couch. Willow and Tara were sitting at one of the reading tables, books of their own spread out around them. Anya was sitting bolt upright on one of the chairs.  
  
She had just finished laying out the next steps in their project to ensure there were no more balrogs left in Middle Earth, aside from Durin’s Bane. (That one they’d found out about almost immediately, and without even having to crack a book – Elrond had told them.)  
  
There were three nods, and one extremely dissatisfied look.  
  
“Anya?” Buffy asked.  
  
“It’s all well and good to go to Lothlorien and Minas Tirith to look for more mentions of balrogs,” Anya began. “I actually agree with that part. But before we go running off to places that aren’t protected elven realms, don’t you think we should address the elephant in the room?”  
  
Buffy paused.  
  
“What elephant?” she asked in confusion.  
  
“Wouldn’t it be an oliphaunt here?” Willow wanted to know.  
  
“Elephant, oliphaunt, main point, there is a sizable and potentially dangerous pachyderm and it should be discussed!” Anya snapped. “ _Before_ we go looking to fight powerful demons not seen since the First Age.”  
  
“I think you’re on your own wavelength again, Ahn,” Xander said gently.  
  
“Make with the splainy please?” Buffy added.  
  
“Remember back in Sunnydale?” Anya began. “When your mom told us you were elves and you would be coming back here?”  
  
“Of course,” Buffy nodded. “It was kind of a standout as family dinners go what with the whole ‘we’re leaving’ thing and everything that happened after.”  
  
“We touched on how you got to California, but once we got here to Imladris we never followed up on it!” Anya exclaimed. “Does that not bother anyone else? I think it’s kind of important!”  
  
Buffy frowned.

It was a good point. How she and her mother had gone missing from Middle Earth in the first place had been all but forgotten in the excitement of arriving in Middle Earth, learning new languages, and the battle at Erebor. But now that Anya brought it up again, it did bother her. A lot, actually.  
  
“That’s one thing that we should be thinking about,” Anya continued. “Here’s another, which didn’t occur to me at the time- how were you the Slayer if you’re half-elven? The Slayer is a human thing. It shouldn’t even have been possible unless you were fully human. Which you _weren’t_.”  
  
“Maybe I was human enough before I rejected the Gift?” Buffy asked, thinking out loud. “I mean, until that…”  
  
“No,” Willow cut in, shaking her head. “Before that you would have been like some sort of quantum function that hadn’t collapsed to a single state.”  
  
Everyone except Tara looked at her blankly.  
  
“Say what now, Will?” Xander asked in confusion. “In English?”  
  
“Before rejecting death, Buffy would have been peredhel – neither Elf nor Man, but with the possibility to become either. Once she rejected death, the option to be counted as a daughter of Men went away. Either way, if the power of the Slayer requires a human host, she shouldn’t have qualified.”  
  
Tara frowned.  
  
“Maybe if we answer the first question, it will point to the answer to the second one,” she said pensively. “Anya, you said it was ‘big league’ to rip someone out of Arda. Big league like a vengeance demon, big league like Sauron, or big league like Morgoth?”  
  
“Definitely not a vengeance demon,” Anya answered immediately. “I don’t think even D’Hoffryn can access Arda, let alone pull someone out of it. Maybe Sauron could, I don’t have a good handle on what he’s capable of. I’m thinking not, though – we all know about his little gold oopsy.”  
  
“Ok, so Mr. ‘I channeled the biggest part of my power into a flashy accessory and then wore it into battle’ probably can’t manage it without his missing accessory,” Xander said, walking over to the white board. “I feel like this needs a list.”  
  
He wrote down _No_ , _Maybe_ , and _Yes_ , then added _vengeance demons_ , _D’Hoffryn_ , and _Sauron_ in the _No_ column.  
  
“How hard is it to get in and out of Arda?” Willow asked. “Who _would_ be able to do it.”  
  
Anya stopped to think.  
  
“The protection around Arda is so thorough I think you almost have to be from here to come here,” she said slowly. “Maybe an Old One could manage it, but I don’t think anything short of that would do it.”  
  
Xander wrote _Old Ones?_ under _Maybe_.  
  
“An Old One wouldn’t have any reason to pull me out of Arda,” Buffy objected. “How would that make any sense?”  
  
Anya nodded.  
  
“I agree,” she said. “Most of them were dormant anyway. And if they had brought you to Earth, it would have been for a purpose, not to make you the Slayer and watch you wander off again. I think we have to look beyond them.”  
  
Buffy froze, gazing off into the distance, in what the Scoobies were starting to refer to as ‘elf mode’.  
  
“ _Beyond_ ,” she murmured. “Beyond sin. Beyond death. The thing the darkness fears. Well, the thing the darkness fears other than me...”  
  
“You think the First Evil did this?” Willow asked.  
  
She and Xander exchanged glances. Tara looked puzzled, since that was before her time. Anya raised an eyebrow.  
  
“The First told me it wasn’t a demon. Something I couldn’t even conceive. Everywhere, in every being…”  
  
She paused, suddenly coming to a conclusion she really didn't like.  
  
“That sound like anything else we’ve heard of here in Arda?”  
  
Xander looked blank. Willow frowned. Anya looked steadily back.  
  
“Morgoth,” she said. “It fits.”  
  
“But Morgoth was able to take physical form,” Tara objected.  
  
“Here in Arda,” Anya shot back.  
  
“Before he was defeated in the War of Wrath and cast into the Void,” Buffy added. “And what do you bet no one’s checked to make sure that’s where he still is?”  
  
“Sauron lost the ability to assume fair form,” Willow mused. “Maybe Morgoth is so reduced he can’t create new forms anymore.”  
  
“Why would he toy with you like that though?” Xander asked. “Because if it was him – did we ever agree whether the First was ‘him’ or ‘it’?”  
  
“ _That’s_ the question you think takes priority?” Buffy demanded.  
  
“Fine, if it was Morgoth,” Xander said, adding _the First Evil/Morgoth??_ somewhere between the _Maybe?_ and _Yes_ columns, “what was his angle? Pull Buff and Celebrían to California Earth, make Buffy the Slayer, then… profit?”  
  
“The First did take an unusual interest,” Anya frowned. “All the things it could have been doing, and it targeted Angel – someone whose death would hurt Buffy. Most Slayers never encounter it.”  
  
“It didn’t just try to kill Angel, it tried to get Angel to kill me,” Buffy pointed out. “There’s your angle – Slayers die. Most of them pretty quickly. If I’d died in Sunnydale, or even before that, I’d never get back to Arda, would I?”  
  
Everyone looked to Anya.  
  
“I don’t think so,” she said. “If you died, properly, your soul would have moved on to one of the dimensions for the souls of the mortal dead. Not Arda.”  
  
Buffy’s face was growing angrier by the second.  
  
“Buff?” Xander asked hesitantly. “All’s well. You beat it at its own game, remember?”  
  
“Did I?” she asked, getting herself under control. “I think I got away before it noticed. I bet if we’d stayed, it would have turned up again at some point.”  
  
“I still don’t understand Morgoth’s angle,” Xander objected. “I mean, making her the Slayer once she’s in California makes sense, but why put her in California in the first place? And Celebrían?”  
  
Buffy’s eyes met Anya’s, and Anya nodded slowly.  
  
“To the pain,” she said softly.  
  
“I don’t understand,” Tara said. “Whose pain? Buffy’s?”  
  
Buffy shook her head.  
  
“My family’s,” she said quietly. “All those pesky, aggravating elves that fought him over the years. He killed a lot of them, but that wasn’t enough. They serve their time in Mandos and get out eventually.”  
  
“Taking you out of Arda, though,” Anya said, sounding almost impressed. “ _That_ would hurt them like nothing else. No Mandos. No coming back. Not even any certainty about what happened. Just… gone.”  
  
“Not even gone like mortals, with a death they could see,” Willow nodded, her eyes going wide.  
  
“Exactly,” Anya confirmed grimly. “Never go for the kill when you can go for the pain.”  
  
“How would he have known where you were, thought?” Xander objected. “I mean, I get the whole ‘ainur know more because the Music’ factor, but that couldn’t possibly tell him you’d be at spot X on day Y.”  
  
“He knew because Sauron told him,” Buffy said flatly. “My mother was being chased by orcs, in the Redhorn Gate. They deliberately cut her off from her guard.”  
  
“Separating the prey from the herd,” Willow frowned. “That doesn’t mean it was Sauron.”  
  
“Sauron fled Dol Guldur in 2063,” Buffy said. “Moria had fallen nearly two hundred years before. Everyone assumed he fled east. What if he didn’t actually go that far? The Nazgul were more than capable of restoring Mordor without their lord.”  
  
“I thought he was back in Dol Guldur by the time you and your mother went missing,” Tara objected, scrabbling for the battered _Chronicle of the Third Age_ which Erestor had donated for use as reference on the grounds that it had gotten too worn for use in the main library.  
  
“He was,” Buffy agreed. “But if he spent time in Moria…”  
  
“Then he had more than enough time to lay traps,” Anya finished. “I can think of half a dozen different ways he could have kept tabs on who or what was moving over Caradhras. But was he looking for your mother, or for you?”  
  
“Nana passed that way several times after Sauron left Dol Guldur but before my birth,” Buffy frowned. “You think he was waiting for _me_ the whole time? Not just my mom, and I happened to be a bonus?”  
  
“Morgoth tried to kill your grandfather when he was a child because of what he foresaw Eärendil would someday do,” Anya shrugged. “Why wouldn’t he try the same with you?”  
  
Buffy blinked.  
  
“But…” she began, only to stop.  
  
Without the Slayer, she’d have been a completely different person. A taller elf, for a start. But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t have still been a fighter. And she doubted her grandfather had seemed very threatening at seven, the age he’d been when Gondolin fell.  
  
“How would he even have known about me?” Buffy finally said. “I mean, to be watching for me specifically, he’d have had to have known I was going to be begotten. My parents didn’t even marry until the Third Age.”  
  
“Doesn’t mean they weren’t flirting in the Second Age,” Xander pointed out. “Elves take things slow, remember?”  
  
“And prefer not to marry in time of war,” Tara added.  
  
“Still seems strange. They could easily have stopped at three kids. That’s already more than most elves after the First Age.”  
  
“Both your parents have ties to the House of Finwë,” Anya pointed out. “And they seem to have more kids than normal, even if they’re not all at Fëanor’s numbers.”  
  
“It still seems weird that they would know to look for me specifically. Not the twins, not Arwen, _me_.”  
  
“Maybe,” Anya shrugged. “Remember ainur have a different perspective than Men or Elves. And given what you’ve accomplished so far, who’s to say you weren’t fated to be a pain in their collective behind either way?”  
  
“All this ‘what if’ brings up another question,” Xander mused. “If Buffy hadn’t been the Slayer, Dawn wouldn’t have happened. At least, not to Buffy and Joyce. And without Dawn-“  
  
“Without Dawn we would have been trapped in California,” Buffy said slowly. “Elven or mortal, we wouldn’t have had a way back, assuming Mom ever remembered without Dawn’s presence jarring her mind.”  
  
In fact, the more she thought about it, the more she disliked how things would have played out had she not been the Slayer, or had Dawn not been sent to her. Either way ended badly.  
  
If Morgoth thought this was going to make her want to end him _less_ , boy did he have another thing coming.


	3. The Choice of the Peredhil

In the depths of the night, the healing hall of Imladris was quiet. The sole patient slept deeply.  
  
Her oldest brother did not.  
  
“You should have sought your own bed hours ago, hanar,” Elladan said softly as he entered, careful not to wake his small sister.  
  
His twin did not reply, but the tensing of his shoulders made it clear that he would not be persuaded to leave.  
  
Elladan came to stand next to Elrohir, shoulder to shoulder. The first born child of Elrond had kept vigil at his sister’s bedside long after the rest of their family had gone to rest.   
  
“She is in no danger, and Ada says she is unlikely to wake before noon.”  
  
Still no response.   
  
Elladan sighed.   
  
Asleep, his small golden haired sister looked serene, peaceful in a way she rarely let herself be in her waking hours. With no light save the scant new moon, one could not see the bruises that covered her. The splint on her injured arm he could still see, but the jaw immobilization did not show, and the blanket hid most of the rest.   
  
The rockslide in the mountains to the north had been sudden, giving Anariel only a split second to react. But she had, instantly- she had pushed Xander to safety without hesitation. Elladan was certain that given the same situation, she would act exactly as she had again, even knowing the cost to herself.   
  
Xander had then taken the foolish risk of restraining a frantic elf who had his advantage in both height and mass, as despite his centuries of experience, Elrohir had looked set to follow his sister down.  
  
“You won’t help her that way!” Xander had snapped, doing his best to pull Elrohir back from the edge.  
  
Elladan had known at once the truth in those words, and turned to his pack without delay. Elrohir had continued to watch Anariel’s progress down the steep slope amid several tons of rock. Thanks to his twin, Elladan knew that their small sister had been relatively unscathed until the rocks began to encounter trees further down.   
  
By the time Elrohir was prepared to move in a way that would not endanger himself, Elladan had rope at the ready. They had needed to walk some distance before they found a section of the cliff Elladan judged safe enough to lower his twin down to a point where he could climb the rest of the way to their sister safely. Then he and Xander had sought a path for themselves and the horses.  
  
When they reached her, Anariel had been awake, more or less. Though she was in great pain, she did at least seem to recognize her brothers. They had been distressed to discover that she had apparently lost all Sindarin again. Xander assured them that though the words might be in the California tongue, it was her big brothers they were directed to, not him.  
  
She had drifted in and out of consciousness as they worked to free her from the rocks that trapped her and began to tend her injuries. Despite her accelerated healing, Anariel would not bounce back from _this_ in only a day or two. Besides the arm that had not only nearly been severed but also crushed, damaging both flesh and bone, she had broken both jaw and leg.   
  
The rest of that day had been spent in doing what they could for their sister, and awaiting their father’s arrival, which had not been until nearly dark.  
  
The progress back to Imladris had been slow, taking several days where a healthy rider would have needed only one, two if their pace was unusually easy. But Anariel’s injuries had been so severe that they had to travel carefully, bearing her in a sling between horses, her limbs in splints, and seeking a route that would be as even as possible.   
  
The party returning Anariel had been surprised to find Arwen arriving at the house at the same time they did – she had been aware of her little sister’s peril, and set out from Lothlorien without delay. She had the advantage of being able to ride at speed, and Celeborn himself had escorted her, no doubt as concerned as she was.  
  
Elrond had settled his daughter, making her as comfortable as possible under the circumstances, and she had been much fussed over by her mother, older sister, and grandfather until she had drifted off to sleep.   
  
Elrohir had not moved since.  
  
“You could not have prevented this,” Elladan told his brother. “It was an accident that might have happened to any one of us.”  
  
His twin turned at last.  
  
“I know,” he admitted, though his voice was filled with doubt.   
  
“It may be lucky that it was our sister,” Elladan continued. “She barely survived, with her ‘surfing’ and her fast healing. I do not know that either of us could have done it.”  
  
He did not need to say aloud that Xander certainly would not have.   
  
_She nearly didn’t,_ Elrohir said, his distress too great for speech. _I spoke with Xander – the question she asked when I first reached her was why I was saying ‘stay’ when before I had said ‘come’._  
  
Elladan shivered. He understood at once what his twin meant – the first command had not been her brother speaking. Mandos had been calling her – and only Elrohir bidding her to stay had prevented her from heeding him.  
  
“I felt her feä flicker,” Elrohir continued, his tone hollow. _I thought we were going to lose her again._  
  
The older children of Elrond will never be able to forget the tragedy that had sundered them from their mother and younger sister, with no hint of their fate until their sudden return.   
  
But Elladan felt that there was more to his twin’s distress than merely the thought that they had nearly lost their sister a second time. He waited patiently until he was able to put it into words.  
  
“My choice is made,” Elrohir admitted quietly. “I am sorry, El. I know we always said we would decide together. But as I watched her fall, I realized that if she did not survive, I would not return to Imladris. And I felt in my feä that my decision was known and could not be undone.”  
  
“You would have ridden to the Havens and taken ship,” Elladan whispered in shock. “Why?”  
  
His twin’s anguished eyes found his.  
  
“When we believed her dead all those years, at least we knew naneth was with her,” he explained. “But this time it was only her. How could I let my baby sister go to what is really another strange land, this time all alone?”  
  
“We have kin there,” Elladan pointed out. “If she were reborn before the rest of us arrived, they would have looked after her.”  
  
“She does not know them,” Elrohir replied quietly. “All would be unfamiliar to her, even the language. I am her older brother. I could not fail her twice.”  
  
Elladan put an arm around his twin. Elrohir had taken the disappearance of Celebrian and Anariel hard, for a while believing he did not deserve his name when he could not even protect his own mother and sister. To have nearly lost Anariel again, and before his very eyes…  
  
“You did not,” he told his brother firmly. “Anariel lives, and soon she will be well enough to tell you herself how silly you are. As for having decided, your decision is mine also as you well know. We will not be parted.”  
  
As he spoke, Elladan felt the same certainty his twin had spoken of that his choice had been acknowledged. They were of the Eldar now, irrevocably.  
  
In truth, he could not imagine choosing differently than his twin. They had been sure of that for as long as they had known of the choice that faced them – that they could not be sundered forever as their father and uncle had been. They have seen their father’s pain, well concealed though it was.  
  
And he also could not see allowing Anariel to go West alone.   
  
“We should tell Nana and Ada,” Elladan said. “And Tinu and Arwen. They will surely want to know.”  
  
“Should we?” Elrohir asked. “I would not want them to feel they must choose as we have. The choice is given to each of us.”  
  
Elladan snorted.  
  
“Tindomiel has said with confidence since she first learned of the choice that she would go with the Eldar,” he pointed out. “Though I suppose her decision will only be accepted once she is of age. And Arwen is the most elven – the most Noldorin – of us all. I cannot imagine _her_ choosing mortality.”


	4. Return to Sender

Buffy was still more than a little annoyed when she finally reached Mithlond. She couldn’t believe her sister would pull a trick so low. Ok, she could believe it, and point made, but seriously, what had Arwen been thinking actually _sending_ what she wrote under the influence of drugs?  
  
It wasn’t her fault she’d been caught in a rockslide, nor was it her fault that some stupid trees had ruined her otherwise fairly good effort at surfing on rocks. Her arm had gotten better, so all the fuss over it was silly. There was absolutely no need to worry everyone on the other side of the Sea as well!  
  
She was going to get that stupid letter back. Tough luck on Arwen, because it turned out that Buffy was not only a better rider, she was a better hider – it was really tough to go anywhere when you couldn’t find your horse and your older brothers wouldn’t loan you theirs since you clearly hadn’t taken proper care of your own. (She definitely owed the twins for taking her side on this.)  
  
She slowed only when she drew near the building that was Cirdan’s headquarters. She’d never been to the Havens before, but Glorfindel had explained the layout well enough that she could find her way around.   
  
She wasn’t sure how to find out who exactly had the offending letters, so she was going to have to ask. Fortunately, Cirdan knew her – he had visited her father several times since she’d come to Middle Earth.  
  
Several elves did rather restrained double takes on seeing her – they might not have met her, but descriptions of her had circulated widely among the elves that still remained on the Hither Shores, and tales of her doings in the Battle of Five Armies were told everywhere east of the Sea.  
  
A rather amused looking elf greeted her when as she climbed the steps to Cirdan’s house.  
  
“Greetings, Dagnis,” he said with a smile.  
  
She recognized Galdor, who frequently served as messenger between Imladris and Mithlond.  
  
“Surely you are not ready to quit Middle Earth so soon?” he asked, his eyes dancing with merriment.  
  
She didn’t glare at him, even though she wanted to. He was only saying what everyone was thinking. No doubt interesting rumors to that effect were flying around the Havens even as they spoke.  
  
“No, I’m here to retrieve a really stupid letter my sister shouldn’t have sent,” she said. “Do you know where it would be?”  
  
“As to that,” Galdor said, “I am afraid you are out of luck – they are taking the message packet aboard ship as we speak. There is a group that will sail with the evening tide, including some who are lately come from Rivendell.”  
  
“They can bring that letter right back off the ship then,” Anariel retorted. “It’s full of nonsense and isn’t going anywhere.”  
  
Galdor’s laugh indicated he didn’t think so, but he showed her to the docks all the same. They found Cirdan there supervising the loading.  
  
To Buffy’s displeasure, Cirdan refused to have the letter unloaded.  
  
“I am sorry, young one, but the letter was one of several, and I do not mean to waste time having the entire packet brought out and opened so that you can interfere with your sister’s mail.”  
  
“But it’s my mail too!” Buffy protested. “She sent stuff I wrote! Without permission!”  
  
“As the eldest sister, she probably felt she did not need it,” Cirdan replied mildly. “Besides, were you not the one who told me it was a California proverb that it is better to seek forgiveness than ask permission?”  
  
Buffy had no good comeback to that, because if it hadn’t been her, it would have been either Willow or Xander. Or maybe Anya - actually, now that she thought about it, Tara would be the only one unlikely to have said it.  
  
“In any case,” Cirdan continued, “I am happy to see you have recovered so well from your recent misadventure.”  
  
Buffy blinked. She hadn’t realized that story had gone beyond Imladris. Though she shouldn’t be surprised- elves were total gossips. Probably the result of having too much time on their hands.  
  
“I’m fine,” she said, slightly thrown, and disgruntled because she was starting to get the feeling that this was like arguing with her grandfather – he would smile and be nice about it, but he wasn’t going to budge. “But that’s why I need the letter back - I don’t want everyone in the West to worry for no reason.”  
  
“Perhaps you should write a letter of your own,” Cirdan suggested with a twinkle in his eye.  
  
“I already did,” she grumped. “But I’d rather just have Arwen’s back.”  
  
Cirdan waited patiently until she grudgingly handed over her letter – and it served Arwen right that it was actually going, because now their kin in the Undying Lands would hear all about her sneaky underhanded ways.  
  
“Only one?” Cirdan asked mildly. “Arwen sent two.”  
  
“Two?” Buffy demanded in horror. “To who?”  
  
“One was directed to your grandmother’s mother, the other to your father’s mother.”  
  
“She sent it to Eärwen _and_ Elwing?” Buffy spluttered, already mentally calculating appropriate retaliation when she got home. She was definitely enlisting Xander in addition to the twins, and maybe Anya might contribute some non-fatal vengeance ideas to the cause.  
  
“Can I have some paper please?” she asked a moment later.   
  
She couldn’t tell if Cirdan was in league with Arwen, or just happy to have her out of the way while he finished loading the ship, but he was inordinately cheerful as Galdor lead her to a balcony overlooking the harbor where she could sit and write another letter.  
  
Her first letter had been spontaneous, a form of getting back at Arwen. She wouldn’t have actually sent it if she had managed to retrieve Arwen’s letter. So that one could go to Tirion, especially since Buffy suspected that was where the worst of the painkiller nonsense had gone too. Elwing would get a real letter.  
  
She worked nearly until sundown on the letter, making an effort to use her best tengwar writing and taking care to make it in the mode of Doriath, not Third Age Sindarin, since that was what Elwing would write and speak.  
  
Most of the letter was normal, just chatter about herself and her family and what they had all been doing. She did pen a warning that Arwen’s letter was not to be trusted, and that anything not in Arwen’s normal writing should be ignored, or maybe thrown out.  
  
But Buffy had observed Dawn enough over the years to have a fairly good idea how to get an older sibling in trouble without seeming to be trying to do it, and slipped in enough subtle hints for Elwing to work out that the Evenstar had not behaved fairly.   
  
Just wait until Arwen got off that ship – especially since Glorfindel said Elwing lived right near Alqualondë, where she could see any incoming ships. She would definitely be there whenever the children of Elrond arrived!  
  
When she had finished and sealed the letter, writing the direction on the outside in the clearest hand she could manage, she returned to the docks. There she found that boarding had begun, and to her surprise, she recognized some of the group.  
  
Unfortunately, the Imladrim who were sailing proved no more helpful than Cirdan had been– while Brandir was sympathetic, he told her that he had given Arwen his word that her letters would be delivered into her grandmothers’ hands, and he meant to keep to that. The best he would do was promise to deliver her letters also.  
  
“At least tell them to read mine first,” she instructed as she reluctantly handed over the letter for Elwing. Given how guilty he looked, she suspected he would.  
  
Buffy joined Galdor and several Falathrim in waving the ship off as it slipped silently out of the harbor heading west.  
  
“Will you stay longer, Anariel,” Galdor asked, “or should I send word to the group setting out for the Elostirion that one more will travel with them?”  
  
Buffy shrugged. She had been planning to go straight back home, but she had never been to the Tower Hills before either.  
  
“I guess it wouldn’t hurt to see the Elostirion,” she said. “Is it Gildor leading them?”  
  
“Who else?” Galdor asked with a smile. “I do not know why he has not taken ship yet, not when he seizes every opportunity to look to Avallonë.”  
  
Yet another reason to go to the Tower Hills – her older siblings have all looked into the famed palantir that showed the other end of the Straight Road at least once, but she had yet to see it. She was in no particular hurry to leave Middle Earth, but she was curious.


	5. Across So Wide A Sea

Galadriel smiled fondly at her littlest grandchild.   
  
Anariel had arrived in Lothlorien three weeks ago, unannounced and unlooked for, utterly disgusted with her sisters. It transpired that while she was recovering from her injuries, Arwen had finally been successful in one of her many stratagems to make Anariel write to their family on the other side of the Sea.  
  
Anariel was sulking like a young elfling at the notion that the first words of hers their kin would read would be utter nonsense written while she had been drugged to dull the pain of her injuries. Unsuccessful in her attempt to retrieve the offending letters before they had been sent, she had sent two of her own.  
  
One had been intentionally composed – though in Arwen’s indignant telling, which had reached Lorien before her little sister did, it had been every bit as childish as the nonsense pages Anariel was upset about. The other, to Elwing, had been written on the spot, and Galadriel could well imagine the former Queen of the Sindar would have words for her other two granddaughters when they arrived. If nothing else, it was certainly a first for one of her grandchildren to appeal to _her_ in a sibling quarrel.  
  
In truth, Galadriel wasn’t sure who would be better pleased – Elwing, with tangible proof that granddaughters not named Arwen recognized her as family, or Celeborn, who was inordinately proud that Anariel had in fact paid attention to his lessons on the Doriathrin dialect. Unfortunately, it was not a question that could be answered anytime soon.  
  
Anariel, despite feeling that she was quite healed by now, had been so aggravated by both her sisters’ smugness and her older brothers’ overprotectiveness on her return to Imladris that she had spent only one night there before decamping to visit her grandparents.   
  
She had travelled alone on this trip, which had caused her grandparents some nervousness after the fact. Not that alone had been her first choice – her impulse had been to bring her sworn brother and sisters. But Xander had been out with the twins and the Dunedain, Willow and Tara had been visiting the Shire, and Anya had been reluctant to leave at short notice without her husband. So Anariel had satisfied herself with a promise that the others would follow her when the twins returned to escort them before setting out on her own.  
  
No matter how capable a warrior she might be, the memory of those awful days when Anariel and Celebrian had vanished without a trace on the journey between Lorien and Imladris still loomed large in Galadriel’s mind. She had been resisting the urge to baby Anariel ever since she arrived. Thankfully, the girl was at least keeping her reluctant word to Elrond to rest and take it easy during her sojourn in Lothlorien.  
  
Her granddaughter was curled up on a pile of cushions on the floor of the talan that served Galadriel as an office, content for the time being to read while her grandmother worked through her own tasks. Celeborn had offered up one of the few books that was his– a volume of poetry of Menegroth. The most motion Galadriel had noticed from Anariel for the past several hours was an occasional shift in position or silent mouthing of a phrase that intrigued her.  
  
It was unexpected, therefore, when abruptly she sat straight up, head cocked to one side, looking puzzled.   
  
_Anariel?_ Galadriel asked silently. She had seen such startle reactions from her smallest granddaughter before, but usually she could identify the cause – normally one of her siblings bespeaking her.  
  
But as she touched Anariel’s mind, she realized with a start that it was not any of the peredhil who reached out to her grandchild. It was someone much farther away.  
  
 _Atto?_ She exclaimed in shock.  
  
She had not seen her father since the War of Wrath. Though he had promised when he left to try to reach her on his return to Aman, he had not succeeded. The only time she had heard him was on her one visit to Numenor before it vanished beneath the wave. The silence since has been so crushing she could not bring herself to write regularly as Arwen did – it would only rub salt into the wound.  
  
Yet somehow, her father can reach her now – or perhaps it is due to Anariel’s presence. She has often suspected that her sole golden haired grandchild had inherited more than just her hair color from the line of Finarfin.  
  
 _Little one._  
  
His voice, ever so strong in her head, was the merest whisper. She cannot begin to imagine how much effort it must be costing him to reach across so wide a sea, nor why he would be so determined now.  
  
 _Anariel…_ came the whisper.  
  
 _I am well! I really am!_  
  
To her surprise, her granddaughter responded directly, sounding if anything irritated that it needed to be said yet again – or perhaps indignant that it needed to be said at all.  
  
 _My sisters fight dirty. But my arm is fine. So is my jaw. And I walked all the way here on my own two feet without my leg falling off._  
  
Galadriel chuckled, feeling both amusement and concern mingling in her father’s touch.  
  
 _If you could but see her, atto, you would not doubt the truth of her words,_ she said drily. _Much of what she has to say at present concerns how terribly vexing it is to be deceived by such an evil creature as an older sister._  
  
 _Grandmother!_ Anariel pouted.   
  
_I am not the only one concerned, my little one,_ he replied, more to his daughter than his great-granddaughter. _Your aunts are nearly beside themselves with worry._  
  
Galadriel was not sure which aunts he meant – Anairë certainly, for Anariel was her descendant as well, albeit the one she was least likely to understand. She suspected Irimë, if she lived again, had seen enough of rambunctious youngsters – and peredhil – to not worry unduly. Findis? Nerdanel, perhaps, who might feel she too had an interest in her sons’ foster grandchild?  
  
 _I wrote!_ Anariel protested indignantly, far less concerned by who was worrying than that they worried at all. _I said I was fine! And I am, see?_  
  
Galadriel herself nearly recoiled from the sheer strength of the vivid impressions – the osanwë equivalent of shouting – that Anariel radiated of herself travelling through the mountains, with all her limbs working normally, as well as a rather less comprehensible collection of moments from her past few weeks in Lothlorien that were probably not so meaningful to Arafinwë, who would recognize little aside from Galadriel in them.  
  
 _I do see._ Though it was not so strong, Galadriel had the warm impression of a hug and a fond fatherly ruffling of her hair as well as her granddaughter’s. _Thank you, child, for that reassurance. I am afraid grandfathers are apt to worry more rather than less as the years pass._  
  
 _Arwen shouldn’t have made you worry in the first place,_ Anariel said disapprovingly.   
  
Galadriel did her best to convey to her father the frown that went with the words – one which would have done Thingol proud.  
  
 _She was worried herself,_ Arafinwë chided reprovingly.   
  
_You are curious about something else besides my health and lack of current injuries,_ Anariel said shrewdly.  
  
The question dropped into their consciousness without words – Galadriel could feel that holding this connection across so profound a distance was taxing her father’s strength.  
  
Fortunately, Anariel, having done nothing more strenuous than go up and down to various telain for the past week, was more than equal to keeping her end of the conversation.  
  
The images of what ‘surfing’ looked like and how it was done normally, how she had learned it – intercut with a few fascinating glimpses of California – as well as how she remembered the rockslide were more than strong enough to bridge the rapidly widening gulf, as Arafinwë struggled to keep the bond between them from dissolving.  
  
 _That will do for now, child. We look forward to your coming – though let it be by ship, please._  
  
 _Of course,_ was Anariel’s blithely confident reply.   
  
The warm tide of love and pride that suffused them both would have to serve as a farewell, for Galadriel knew her father would be able to manage nothing more. She grasped that feeling, hugging it to her fëa, holding it as long as she could, as though it were a tangible thing.  
  
When she focused once more on her physical surroundings, she found Anariel’s expression a fascinating blend of awe, pride, and wistfulness.  
  
“Do not rub it in to your sisters too much, pitya,” she advised.  
  
So far as she knew, Anariel was the only one to ever hear any of her amanyar kin.  
  
Anariel shook her head.  
  
“I won’t. I may not tell them at all,” she said thoughtfully.  
  
Words were so inadequate after osanwë. Galadriel touched her mind lightly.   
  
Her resentment at her sisters had vanished, to be replaced by surprise, and a bit of grudging gratitude, for without them, she knew her great-grandfather would not have made such a heroic effort to reach the Hither Shores. And she did not wish her sisters to envy this experience that they have never had, and may never have.   
  
_Maybe, if I practice, we may be able to do that again? But from our end, so that your father will not be so drained? I do not think it would be too difficult._  
  
Galadriel smiled sadly.  
  
“You may practice, pitya, but whether it will work, I do not know.”  
  


\---

  
  
On the other side of the sea, Arafinwë gratefully accepted the fortified wine Anairë handed him, as his brother passed another cup to their mother.  
  
The effort to reach across the boundaries between the mortal lands and the Blessed Realm was too great for him to succeed alone, or even with his sisters, but with Indis’ help, they had managed it – just barely. He was exhausted, more than a little nauseous, and could feel the beginnings of a dreadful headache coming on.   
  
Yet it was all worth it to know his little granddaughter was well and happy. And now he knew – as if he had experienced it himself! – what surfing was.  
  
His siblings looked anxiously at him as Eärwen helped him ease himself up into a sitting position.  
  
“I do not think it is something we will repeat often,” he said quietly, “but it did work.”  
  
“The child has recovered?” Anairë asked, clasping her hands firmly together before Nolo took them reassuringly in his. It was an old trick of hers he recognized as the defensive maneuver it was - folded hands would not shake as easily, allowing her to look calmer and more composed.  
  
“Quite well,” Indis said with a smile, though the question had not been intended for her. “Such a shame she was born on the Hither Shores, where there are none to train her properly.”  
  
“Artanis is there, Mother,” Arafinwë pointed out.   
  
“Artanis is woefully out of practice,” Indis replied, her voice matter of fact. “She speaks only to her daughter and grandchildren, who are rarely so far that she needs to stretch to reach them.”   
  
“The little one does not seem to need much training,” Findis remarked thoughtfully, having followed the conversation, and lent her strength to her younger brother at need.   
  
“The raw power of her!” Irimë agreed. “I would not have expected it in one who has never seen the light of the Trees.”  
  
“She is doubly descended from Mother,” Arafinwë pointed out. “And Itarillë is rather gifted as well.”  
  
Indis herself smiled, but said nothing. Out loud, at least.  
  
 _There was more than just the power of the Elves there, my son. I rather think the blood of Luthien – and Melian – runs true in that one._


	6. Old Family Stories

Celeborn smiled.  
  
He was always happy to see any of his grandchildren, but time with the youngest two in particular was a treasure.  
  
Anariel and her mortal sisters and brothers had arrived the previous evening, with no firm plan for how long their visit would last.  
  
He was less fond of mortals than his law-brother had been – he cannot forget the reason his cousin Luthien is no longer with them – but for Anariel’s sake he treats these ones as kin. They’ve earned it. Without them, his little Anariel would not have lived to return to Arda. He wouldn’t have a fifth grandchild – or his daughter.  
  
He’s unsurprised that Willow, Tara, and Anya have clustered around Galadriel for the morning. While their personalities might not be similar, their interest in what they termed ‘magic’ was, and they regarded his wife as a mentor.  
  
Xander, of course, had taken himself off to the workshops where those galadhrim inclined to work with wood plied their craft. From what Celeborn had seen, the boy has made great progress since his previous visit – for a mortal, his work is already excellent and edging toward exceptional.  
  
He was selfishly pleased that this left Anariel free to invade his office – it’s not as if any of his current work cannot be set aside for some time.  
  
He was equally pleased that whatever else they’re teaching her at Imladris, they haven’t been making a stuffy High Elf of her.  
  
She sprawled on the cushions of his flet as comfortably as any of his people – Thingol’s or Tawarwaith.  
  
“Your mother writes me that I should tell you more of Doriath,” he remarked.  
  
Anariel grinned.  
  
“My study, you mean?” she asked.  
  
“No, sweet one, you forget I saw that when I came to Imladris with Arwen.”  
  
Anariel wrinkled her little nose.  
  
“It really wasn’t as bad as the boys made it sound,” she said decisively.  
  
That’s been Anariel’s version of the landslide that had nearly ended her life almost since it happened. She’s a good deal more cavalier about it than any of her kin could be – Galadriel’s father had even managed the supposedly impossible, speaking mind to mind across the ocean to reassure her Amanyar kin that all truly was well with the child.  
  
“So you have said whenever it is mentioned,” Celeborn replied mildly. “But that has been some years now. ‘Rían simply thought you were learning a good deal of Noldorin history and a bit more from the Iathrim side couldn’t hurt.”  
  
“We read Lindarin history, too,” Anariel protested with a frown. “It’s just that doesn’t have to do with what we’re curious about right now. Besides, the Iathrim were mostly sensible. The Noldor…weren’t. We’re learning from their mistakes.”  
  
Celeborn suppressed a snicker.  
  
He dearly wished his wife had been present to hear that. Her mild annoyance in his head was nowhere near what it would have been had she not been restraining herself in front of her impressionable young audience.  
  
“Though,” Anariel added hopefully, “if you want to tell stories about Lúthien, that would be interesting.”  
  
Celeborn eyed his granddaughter closely. For all she was trying to sound casual, his well-honed sense of when he was not getting the whole story told him there was more to the request that she was letting on.  
  
The innocent look she gave him _might_ have fooled anyone who hadn’t raised her mother. Or remembered Lúthien as a child. Or, for that matter, recalled Elrond’s youth – particularly the rare times he stepped out of the Noldorin formality the Kinslayers had drilled into him.  
  
“Little one,” Celeborn sighed, “you do recall that I have known your grandmother almost since the rising of the sun?”  
  
“Yes,” she replied, keeping the innocence going.  
  
“So while I may not know _why_ you’re asking about Lúthien without seeming overly interested, I know that you’re up to something.”  
  
“I can’t be curious about my grandmother’s grandmother the actual person instead of Lúthien the legend?” Anariel asked brightly.  
  
“Of course you can, darling, but you realize you’d be more likely to discover whatever it is you’re after if you simply _told_ me.”  
  
“I’m just curious. And reading about my family in books is…weird.”  
  
“It’s probably even odder if you’re reading the Noldorin books,” Celeborn muttered.  
  
That Pengolodh had gotten some rather peculiar notions – and from time to time, he wonders if some of what the dratted ellon committed to paper hadn’t been expressly to get back at him and Galadriel for being so unavailable for his chronicle project.  
  
“But you did know her, didn’t you?” Anariel persisted hopefully.  
  
“Of course I did,” Celeborn laughed. “She was a worse brat than I’m told you used to complain Tindomiel was, and all the worse for being her parents’ only child.”  
  
Anariel blinked, sitting entirely still for a moment before she burst out laughing at the incongruousness of hearing the most beloved princess of Doriath and hero of the Silmaril quest called a brat.  
  
“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” she giggled, “we had to get it from somewhere.”  
  
“Oh, no,” Celeborn assured her gravely. “Any faults of yours or your brothers and sisters are most _definitely_ the fault of the golodhrim.”  
  
That didn’t exactly help her settle.  
  
“Ok, so we do not get our brattiness from Lúthien. Even though I bet that brattiness was good preparation for annoying Morgoth more than anyone else in history.”  
  
Celeborn smirked.  
  
“Quite possibly. I’d like to think Oropher and I didn’t suffer all that torment in vain.”  
  
Anariel waited expectantly.  
  
Celeborn, with a sigh, launched into a retelling of some of Lúthien’s childhood exploits and adolescent pranks.  
  
Anariel showed every sign of genuinely enjoying it, occasionally asking questions, and laughing herself silly over the time Lúthien had managed to dye Celeborn’s hair an outlandish shade of green.  
  
Eventually, inevitably, the conversation came around to the Silmaril Quest. (A fresh round of vexation from Galadriel – this time due to a desire to be present for the part that related to Finrod.)  
  
Anariel listened as Celeborn told her the version the Iathrim told – and the version Lúthien had shared only with her kin, with the bits she had decided were not for the public. (“I _knew_ she did more than just sing!” was Anariel’s triumphant response.)  
  
She was a rapt audience through the hunting of the Wolf, and the first death of Beren and Lúthien, as well as their return.  
  
It was then that she frowned.  
  
“Did they look different when they came back?” she asked.  
  
“Different how?” Celeborn asked.  
  
“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “Would anyone have known looking at them that something had happened?”  
  
“None but Aunt Melian,” Celeborn replied. “The rest of us would never have known had Lúthien not told us.”  
  
Anariel looked somewhat puzzled, but didn’t press the issue.  
  
“Did she really sing for Mandos?” she wanted to know.  
  
“As to that, I cannot say,” Celeborn replied with a sigh. “She was reluctant to speak of what had passed in the Halls of the Dead. But she did tell us that when Beren passed from the world, so would she, for they would not be parted again.”  
  
“And what about after that? Pengolodh said the Silmaril hastened their deaths.”  
  
Celeborn wasn’t positive, but he had the distinct impression that somehow they’d come to the point she was actually curious about.  
  
He laughed, and did his best to ignore the tart commentary from his beloved wife, who had a many things to say about the historian, few of them for children’s ears. (Less amusingly, she was mildly concerned that Anariel might have taken it into her head to find Maedhros' and Maglor's Silmarils.)  
  
“Pengolodh, little one, embroidered a fair deal. He wanted to tell a good tale. The Silmaril making Luthien shine too brightly for Arda marred sounded much better than the simple truth that Beren was at the end of his allotted time. Seventy-one may not be as old as some mortals live to see, but it was a good age for mortals who had led a hard life as he had.”  
  
To his surprise, Anariel did not look nearly as disappointed as Arwen had when she first learned the truth of the tale.  
  
“No, I guess when you put it like that, it’s not,” she nodded.  
  
Celeborn supposed it was somewhat easier for her to accept, having lived among mortals herself.  
  
“What of the California men?” he asked. “Was seventy-one a good age for them?”  
  
She thought for a moment.  
  
“I guess it depends. As you say, those who have harder lives tended not to live as long. But seventy-one wasn’t an _un_ usual age to die.”  
  
“Mind _you_ don’t,” Celeborn told her with mock sternness.  
  
“I thought we’d agreed that my age counted from my begetting!” Anariel protested.  
  
“We agreed you were an adult. That doesn’t mean you actually experienced all those years,” Celeborn pointed out. “And in terms of time you experienced, you’re coming up on that dangerous age.”  
  
“Pfft,” she snorted. “I’m definitely planning to be around when we gather to kick Sauron’s butt. Which doesn’t sound like it’s going to be in the next thirty-odd years. So I think we’re good.”


	7. The Ties That Bind

He snorted softly to himself when he heard them.  
  
The quiet ‘shh, I don’t want him to hear us coming’ was entirely too late.  
  
Anariel Nairallë could move silently enough that she had on occasion surprised him, despite his millennia of experience avoiding other elves. She was not the first in her family who had sought him out – but she was the most persistent.  
  
He had never objected to her after that first encounter – how could he, when the child had already pledged herself as his advocate to the Máhanaxar? If she was fearless enough to stand in the Ring of Doom and speak his name, he will not hide from her.  
  
She has asked often if she might bring her brothers and sisters to meet him.  
  
He has always said no.  
  
Her doggedness on subjects she has already made up her mind on rivaled his father’s – not that she would appreciate the comparison. She had refrained from speaking her mind on the rare occasions Fëanor’s name has been mentioned, but the twist of her mouth betrayed that her thoughts were not complimentary.  
  
“You need not be quiet on my account,” he announced. “I know if Nairallë is determined to find me, I will be found – besides, you sound more like a herd of oliphaunts than a troop of elves.”  
  
There was a thump followed by a muffled yelp from someone male, as well as a high pitched squeal of excitement that sounded young enough that he could make no judgment as to boy or girl.  
  
He was mildly surprised to see that ‘troop’ was the accurate word – besides herself, Elrond’s golden daughter has brought all her siblings.   
  
The twins he would know as Elrond’s sons on sight, though oddly enough if he looked closer, he saw Turgon more than Elrond in their faces. The dark-haired elleth who could only be Arwen was indeed Lúthien come again, but the youngest girl was an interesting blend of Noldor and Sindar that put him more in mind of his aunt Anairë than any other.   
  
For a moment, his heart was torn between deep ache at the kin across the sea he has not seen in two life ages of the earth and wild joy that these children would wish to know him.   
  
The mortals were no less interesting. The only male of the group could easily pass for one of the Noldor if he looked slightly less mannish. The woman with him was a puzzle – they clearly belong together, he could sense the bond, yet she seemed older than he would expect for a mortal of her appearance. Perhaps this was one of those ‘old souls’ he sometimes heard the Edain speak of.  
  
The other two women seemed so opposite, yet complemented each other nicely. There was a bond there, too, which surprised him more than it ought, as he did not realize mortals sanctioned such unions. And of course, the more outgoing one had hair a shade that brought back many memories.  
  
Anariel looked well pleased with herself.  
  
“Mae govannen,” she greeted him happily. “It turned out everyone wanted to meet you, so I brought them all except Estel, because he’s off somewhere with the Dunedain.”  
  
Her youngest sister looked to be fairly bursting with excitement – and probably questions, too, unless the young have changed greatly since he last associated with children – but her eldest sister was keeping her firmly in hand until introductions are done.  
  
“My brothers Elladan and Elrohir,” Anariel says, pointing out each one in turn. “My older sister Arwen Undomiel, my little sister Tindomiel, my brother Xander, his wife Anya, my sister Willow, her wife Tara.”  
  
He paid close attention when she indicated which twin was which, as he expected at some point there would be an attempt to confuse him – every set of twins he has ever known has tried it, beginning with his baby brothers, so he doubted this pair would be any different.  
  
“And this is Kanafinwë Makalaurë, or Maglor in the Sindarin,” she added belatedly, realizing that her manners had been somewhat less than correct, although clearly the children all knew who they had come to meet.  
  
“Were you really born in Valinor?” Tindomiel burst out.  
  
He nearly laughed, because she was equal parts awe and skeptical. He would not let his mind dwell on who she sounded like or who she looked like.   
  
“I was, young one,” he answered gravely.  
  
Sea blue eyes widened as if she did not have a cousin living in Imladris who had been not only born in Valinor, but reborn there as well.   
  
“What was it like?” she asked breathlessly.  
  
He should answer in words, but words were so inadequate. Instead he sang softly, just a few lines, evoking the beauty of the Trees and the sweetness of the air.  
  
The blissful look on her face was reward enough.  
  
“You have time to ask him all your questions,” her eldest sister laughed. “You need not pose them all in the next hour.”  
  
He raised an eyebrow.  
  
Anariel smiled, slightly guiltily, because he had in no way been consulted on this.  
  
“We kind of brought tents and food and stuff to stay for a while,” she explained hopefully. “And since we are in Forlindon and all together, Ada and Nana will not worry if we are several months away.”  
  
He sighed.  
  
“And if I objected?” he asked wryly, aware even as he said it that he won’t.  
  
Her face fell – though not as obviously as Tindomiel and Willow’s – but she didn't argue.  
  
“Then we camp out on our own for a while before visiting Mithlond on the way home,” she shrugged. “But it would be nicer to camp with you.”   
  


\---

  
  
Several hours later, he could scarce believe his change in circumstances. The tents the children had brought were not just for orc patrols, but proper tents meant for comfort. Though they all carried some, the bulk of the food was in Anariel’s pack – she could carry more than any other without complaint, although she did admit that they have not had to carry everything on their own backs for very long.   
  
They had taken advantage of a supply wagon being sent from Imladris to the Havens, and much of the gear rode in the wagon – as did Tindomiel, who was experiencing her first outing without a parent. She was still in her thirties, so it was not terribly surprising that she had only been allowed to join her siblings after much pleading and promises of good behavior on her part and vigilance by her older sisters and brothers.  
  
Maglor couldn’t help but suspect the answer might have been different if Elrond had known what his middle daughter had in mind. Surely the surviving son of Eärendil had learned enough of the sins of his foster fathers to want to protect his children from such monsters.  
  
He looked past the campfire, where the twins were minding the grouse Arwen bagged on the late afternoon hunt. They’d dressed it and set it to roast with the ease of long practice, and Anariel had produced a packet of herbs from within her pack to season the meat. The mortal women had wrapped several root vegetables in leaves to be roasted with the birds, and Tindomiel promised that after dinner there would be something he would not have eaten before, which she and Anariel were preparing.  
  
“I do not deserve this,” he murmured to himself.   
  
“Maybe it’s not about what you deserve,” Xander said from behind him. “Maybe it’s about what they deserve.”  
  
Maglor turned to face Anariel’s sworn brother.  
  
“They scarcely deserve a Kinslayer like me,” he sighed.  
  
“You won’t hear me argue,” the man replied.   
  
“You were not in favor of this trip,” Maglor realized.  
  
“Not really,” Xander said, his tone even. “But when Buffy gets an idea in her head, and you can’t come up with a good reason she shouldn’t - or a reason she thinks is a good reason...”  
  
Maglor nodded. He understood. Much like his father, Anariel found it easy enough to ignore opposition - though thankfully she was wiser in choosing when to heed it.  
  
“Are we having this discussion again?” a voice asked sharply.  
  
Xander’s wife Anya had arrived, a look of aggravation on her face that would put even Caranthir to shame. Xander’s shoulders sagged, as if he understood ‘discussion’ to mean ‘argument’.  
  
“It is fair for him to doubt that I should be around any of you,” Maglor told her soothingly. “I have committed many crimes, some of which there may be no forgiveness for.”  
  
“He’s got a point, Ahn,” Xander. “The histories we’ve been reading are pretty clear on the deeds of the Fëanorians. He’s been out here by himself all this time for a reason.”  
  
“Really, Xander? You think he’s that hopeless? So totally evil there can be no redemption for him?” she asked sharply.  
  
At first, Maglor was startled by how personally she took his statement. Then, watching the expressions passing between the pair, he realized that it was not entirely about him.  
  
“Because if there’s no hope for him,” Anya finished quietly, “there’s even less for me.”


	8. Her Kind of People

Buffy grinned.  
  
Rohan was a kingdom on her wavelength.  
  
“Save the world, then we party” was a philosophy the Rohirrim were definitely down with. Actually, just “save the day, then we party” was pretty much their m.o.  
  
Kill a bunch of orcs? Party.  
  
Slay some wargs? Party.  
  
Deal with a troll or two? Party.  
  
And their parties – provided one steered clear of the drinking contests, which were very much a ‘NO’ as far as she’s concerned – were pretty fun. To be honest, she was almost looking forward to seeing their afterparty for whenever Sauron is defeated. Given the festivities they put on for dealing with minor baddies, that should be quite the blowout.  
  
Tonight was no exception. Happily, it was one of the Edoras parties, which meant there would at least be actual beds for most party-goers to sleep it off in instead of sleep rolls on the hard ground. (She’s both been there and done that, and beds are definitely preferable.)  
  
“Dernhelm!” a rather gleeful Theoden called, not _quite_ stumbling over to her. “Have another ale!”  
  
She’s perfected the art of subtly getting rid of drinks so as not to end up completely legless at these shindigs. So she was able to accept the ale the slightly inebriated prince of Rohan was pressing into her hand without concern, and start unobtrusively spilling it. No one’s caught her at it yet. (And even if they do, what were they going to say to someone the smarter cookies in the jar suspect isn’t just any shieldmaiden?)  
  
“You seem particularly merry tonight,” she observed.  
  
“Merry?” he laughed. “Don’t be silly. I’m ecstatic!”  
  
He positively beamed.  
  
“Do tell?” she asked expectantly.  
  
“Elfhild said yes!” he exclaimed, clinking his tankard against hers so enthusiastically that half her drink sloshed out without her even having to try. “We will be wed in the spring!”  
  
“Congratulations, my prince,” she replied, lifting her drink in salute. “May you have many strong children.”  
  
“Never mind children, I will have _Elfhild_ ,” he grinned proudly.  
  
She couldn’t help but smile. Theoden had been wooing the fairest maiden in Rohan with mixed success for several seasons, and she’d led him a merry chase. (Quite privately, Buffy suspected Elfhild had made up her mind months ago, but wanted to be sure Theoden knew _his._ )  
  
“I hope I’m invited to the wedding,” she said with a smile.  
  
“’F course you’re invited! Elfhild needs the fiercest shieldmaidens to be her bridesmaids,” Theoden declared as distinctly as a man who’d already had half a dozen ales could manage. “Have to make sure to scare off bad luck. And no one’s scarier than you.”  
  
He smiled beatifically at her before making his way to the next knot of like-aged riders to share his good news.  
  
She suppressed a grin. From anyone else, that might have been an insult. From warrior folk like the Rohirrim, she’ll take it as a compliment.  
  
Doesn’t mean she’s not going to make him sweat about it in the morning, though.


	9. The Department of Bad Ideas

Celeborn could hear his wife’s temper well before she came stomping into his office. His letter to Thranduil would have to wait. He capped the ink. Just in case.  
  
“I am going to _kill_ Turukano,” Galadriel hissed.  
  
“That may be difficult, seeing as Bauglir already did for him in the First Age,” Celeborn replied mildly, looking up from his writing desk with a smirk. “And his city.”  
  
Galadriel glared at him, but it had little effect. After three Ages of marriage, her husband knew the difference between her mad and her mad at _him_.  
  
“Also, I thought you were against kinslaying, beloved. Killing your cousin…”  
  
“Fine, I will settle for kicking his re-embodied ass at the first available opportunity,” Galadriel snapped. “And since when do you stick up for golodhrim?”  
  
“Since you took up using California expressions like ‘kick his ass’,” Celeborn replied drily. “What's Anariel done or intending to do now?”  
  
That Galadriel did not bother to deny that it was about Anariel was as good as confirmation.  
  
Their granddaughter and her mortal brother and sisters had just left after an extended visit, with the intention of spending several years in Minas Tirith. As Celeborn hadn’t heard anything to concern him over the past few years, whatever had upset Galadriel could only be something they had let slip just before departure – possibly not by Anariel herself. Anya or Willow, if he had to guess.  
  
“And what has your idiot cousin to do with it?” Celeborn asked.  
  
“That dratted book of his!” Galadriel snapped. “At least Pengolodh had the sense to tone things down in his account of the Nirnaeth. But Turukano just _had_ to send Maitimo a blow by blow…”  
  
“ _That_ again?” Celeborn sighed.  
  
“I _knew_ I should have burnt it!” Galadriel stormed.  
  
“Elrond would have been distraught at your wanton destruction of any book, but particularly one given to him by Maedhros,” Celeborn reminded her. “Not to mention, if he’s ever read it, he would have just copied it out again.”  
  
He’d used the same argument to save the dratted thing in the first place. Of course, if he’d known he was saving it to cause trouble for his grandbaby nineteen yeni later, he’d have happily chucked the slim volume in the fire himself.  
  
“It would have been different in a copy than it was in Turvo’s own hand,” she said. “That book was meant to wound.”  
  
“It seems to have missed its mark,” Celeborn whistled.  
  
“No, I imagine it pained Maitimo as much as Turvo could have wished,” Galadriel sniffed. “He probably felt himself duty-bound to read it. But the trouble with putting a poison pen letter in book form is that other people may also read it. One’s great-great-grandaughter, for example!”  
  
Celeborn sighed. He didn’t imagine Anariel’s shock would make for the best introduction to Turgon. The girl had seen too much at a young age to be reading such things.  
  
“I will take it out of Turukano’s hide if Anariel comes to harm in her planned mission to see to it that Middle Earth is balrog free,” Galadriel huffed.  
  
Celeborn nearly choked in surprise.  
  
“ _Balrogs_ now?” he demanded when he could speak.  
  
They’d only just talked her out of dragon-hunting.  
  
“Apparently. She _never_ would have taken it into her head if not for that dratted book, and I absolutely will be telling my dear cousin all about his monumental stupidity should the opportunity present itself.”


	10. What's In A Name?

“No, you can’t be Morwen!”  
  
It took all Buffy’s half-elven composure not to snicker out loud.  
  
They were nearly to Minas Tirith, for what she hoped would be a long stay as mortals counted it. The plan was to study the books of lore in the Royal Library, to see if there might be clues there as to whether more creatures of Morgoth than just a few dragons and Durin’s Bane had survived the War of Wrath.   
  
She wasn’t sure how exactly they were going to get access to the library yet – she was hoping they could manage without her having to pull out the ‘daughter of Elrond, granddaughter of Galadriel, and oh, yeah, related to the Kings’ card. They were going to try the creative approach first, trading on Buffy’s family ties only if absolutely necessary.  
  
The public story was that Tara and Willow were studying herbal lore to further their healing skills. Xander would be Willow’s brother, a carpenter with a new wife who kept the books. Buffy herself would be their younger sister, an assistant to Tara and Willow. With any luck, that little bit of fiction would allow them to live quietly in a non-snobby area of the city and come and go to the library.   
  
To that end, both she and the Scoobies had been picking new names for themselves. Buffy had no intention of spending several years among mortals as recognizably elvish, let alone as the famous Anariel Dagnis. Moreover, the Scoobies’ names would sound odd to Gondorian ears. So they had decided they would all take Quenya or Sindarin aliases.  
  
Buffy had chosen to call herself Noliel – those Gondorians who knew the high tongue should gloss it as ‘daughter of wisdom’. She thought it fitting, for her father was counted among the Wise, and moreover, she was a descendant of Nolofinwë. She just hoped no one thought it meant _she_ was wise.  
  
Willow had simply Sindarized her name, becoming Tatharel. Tara had settled on Gilornel, the Star-tree, chosing to take the meaning of her name from the Indic languages rather than the Irish, and combine it with ‘tree’ to mark her bond with Willow.   
  
Xander had thought that rather than go by the meaning of his name, he would simply do as many high-born Gondorians did and pick a name from the history books. He had then stumbled across the name Axantur, one of the grandsons of Vardamir Nolimon, and decided that it was close enough to his own name that he was safer with that one than any other.  
  
Anya, to everyone’s surprise, had been the one who had the most trouble coming up with a name. It was a bit ridiculous, given that as Anyanka, she’d gone by more names than she generally remembered when looking for scorned women whose wishes she might grant.   
  
Unfortunately, she had been unable to do as Xander had, for the Quenya word closest to her own name, anyara, meant ‘very ancient’ – clearly unsuitable for a young mortal. The next closest, anarya, was a day of the week. She had tried looking for a name close in meaning to her original name, Aud, but none of the elvish names whose meaning matched were ones anyone was comfortable with. In general, names that referenced fate were names to stay away from.  
  
So Anya had moved on, trying and discarding dozens of names in turn. The search was growing desperate, for they would reach Minas Tirith in two days at most, and the chance of encountering other Men rose with every passing hour. Yet she still had no name to give if asked.   
  
“What’s wrong with Morwen?” she demanded in aggravation. “It’s certainly appropriate.”  
  
“No it’s not!” two people retorted at once.  
  
Buffy was staying out of the argument, since Xander and Tara seemed to be doing just fine on their own. Willow, like Buffy, was far too amused to join in with reasons. But Buffy could see their point – using the name of Turin Turambar’s mother seemed like a bad idea. Gondorians, particularly the educated ones, usually tried to avoid ill-fated names.  
  
“Ahn,” Xander began patiently, “we’re trying to blend in. Picking a name that’s going to strike everyone that hears it and remind them of one of the all-time tragedies is not really a good way to blend.”  
  
“And it’s not in the least appropriate for you – your hair is the wrong color to be Morwen,” Tara added reasonably.”  
  
“There’s a Morwen married to the prince of Rohan!” Anya protested.  
  
“That settles it, then,” Xander said flatly. “You can’t use a name that’s being used by someone well known. No current princesses or Stewards’ daughters.”  
  
“No using names of any of Buffy’s relatives either,” Tara added more gently. “No Finduilas or Idril. We don’t want people thinking of elves around her.”  
  
Anya glared balefully at all four of them – her husband in particular – but went back to furiously paging through the history book she’d been reading as they rode.  
  
 _Think we should add ‘no Beruthiel’?_ Willow asked Buffy silently with a grin on her face.


	11. Southern Exposure

Anariel tried her best not to frown as she listened, keeping her face neutral as if her only care in the world was the food in front of her, not absorbing the vocabulary and cadence of the language spoken in this part of Near Harad, a dialect that seemed to have influences from both Adunaic and Variag.  
  
She firmly ignored the little voice buried deep inside her that still tried to insist she was no good at languages. She spoke half a dozen fluently by now, and could get by with basics in several more besides– take that, high school French!  
  
Languages were one more tool, and occasionally a weapon, and learning them had gotten somewhat easier once she starting looking at them that way. The Slayer was naturally good with weapons, right? So she should be naturally good with languages.  
  
It was a trick, but it was a trick that was _working_ , so she would go with it.  
  
Even if, deep down, she still felt like she was bad at languages.  
  
“You’re really not,” someone murmured behind her.  
  
Startled, she reached out with her mind, only to find…  
  
“El, what the heck are you doing here?” she hissed.  
  
“We might ask you the same,” her brother replied, as the twins settled on either side of her.  
  
Their hair might look like it was sloppy and mannish, but she knew that it was actually very carefully contrived to hide their elvish ears.  
  
That was not a problem she had. Her little sister’s ears might have gotten pointier over the years in Middle Earth, but her ears remained stubbornly mannish. Happily, in this part of Harad, it was the fashion for women to wear scarves or other head coverings that left only their face visible. It seemed largely practical, given how fierce the afternoon sun could get. But it had the happy side effect of making it fairly easy for her, Will, Tara, and Anya to blend in.  
  
“Imagine our surprise,” Elladan remarked conversationally, helping himself to some of her _olun_ , “when we arrived in Minas Tirith to discover that Master Axantur had departed the city in the spring with all his household.”  
  
“We heard concern from many who knew them,” Elrohir continued, flagging the server to bring another plate, “but the feelings of both Lord Ecthelion and the folk of the fourth circle were so acute we felt bound to promise them we would investigate.”  
  
“They would be most upset if they knew where you were,” Elladan said.  
  
 _As, I think, would our father_ , Elrohir added silently.


	12. Buffy & Anya's Not So Excellent Adventure

“This is either the best idea you’ve ever had or the worst one,” Anya hissed.  
  
“I concede that the jury is still out,” Buffy whispered back.  
  
The pair of them were crouched in a ditch partially filled with a questionable substance. Bright side, it didn’t stink quite enough to be a latrine trench. Not so bright side, it wasn’t far short of it.  
  
Trekking through Mordor had started out as a not-quite-drunken joke one night, but the more she’d thought about it, the better a scouting mission had sounded. They’d had no trouble moving around Harad, and were already halfway up the Harnen anyway…  
  
Getting into Mordor had been surprisingly easy, given that Buffy was not above using ‘feminine wiles’ when the occasion called for it – even on orcs, if need be. Seducing the captain in charge of collecting the latest ‘shipment’ bound for Barad-dur hadn’t been difficult. While she’s not going to be bragging about it or mentioning it in any of the letters to the family across the Sea, nor did she particularly regret it. (Unlike most orcs she’s killed over the years, he’d died happy. If she ever runs into him in the West, she’ll apologize. He hadn't actually done anything that she knew of to deserve his death.)  
  
Xander, Willow, and Tara were taking the long way around – taking a hopefully quieter, calmer journey through Khand while Buffy and Anya attempted a more direct route to their chosen rendezvous north of enemy territory.  
  
Xander had actually been ok with skipping what he called the ‘potentially lethal fun’ they’d be having. Willow had been a harder sell.

\---

  
“You’re actually serious about this?” Willow asked in disbelief.  
  
They’d rented a house not far from the river port. Travelers from far-flung places weren’t unusual in this part of the world, and while they might have gotten a room or two at any of the inns, there were houses to let meant for this purpose, with the ground floor built for business and storage, and the second for living. The dining area was on a covered balcony that caught the breeze most evenings, and was a far more comfortable place to take dinner in the heat of the summer than any room inside could have been.  
  
Unfamiliar languages were also nothing out of place, so they could speak English to their heart’s content. To the people of Sidun, they were simply one more group of traders looking for goods to take back to their own lands. They’d bought a few things as ‘samples’ to foster that impression, and Xander and Tara had several merchants convinced that the only reason they hadn't made any large purchases yet was because they meant to drive a hard bargain.  
  
“Why not?” Buffy asked, sipping her drink. She wasn’t sure what to call it in English– wine was apparently not an accurate translation of _arak_ – but she enjoyed the anise flavor. She wondered if anyone in Imladris knew how it was made.  
  
“You’re talking about _Mordor_ ,” Willow said slowly, as if unsure Buffy was actually understanding her. “You know, Big Bad’s home base?”  
  
“Yeah, I got that, Will,” Buffy agreed. “That’s why I think it’s an idea to scout it out now, before he’s looking for anyone to try.”  
  
“You have to admit, it has the element of surprise,” Xander pointed out. “No elves have been there since the beginning of the age. Definitely not since he started his little rebuilding project.”  
  
“Probably because they didn’t think dying sounded like a good idea!” Willow snapped.  
  
“It’s not exactly Plan A,” Buffy said equably. “Also, I’ve only had two drinks all evening, Will. I don’t even have a buzz.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
Tara’s question stopped the incipient bickering cold.  
  
“We’re going there for real eventually,” Buffy replied. “I don’t see any way around that. When the time comes, it might make a difference to know the lay of the land. How to get in. How to get out. Where he can hide surprises. Where not to go.”  
  
“We’re doing ok keeping a low profile here,” Tara said thoughtfully. “But five of us making it through Mordor unnoticed doesn’t seem very likely.”  
  
“She’s got a point,” Anya put in.  
  
“Not all five of us would go,” Buffy said.  
  
There was a split second of silence before everyone tried to talk at once.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Buffy!”  
  
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea…”  
  
“Excellent!”  
  
The other three turned to look at Xander in surprise.  
  
“Oh, come on,” he said reasonably. “What are the odds that _I_ make it through Mordor without doing something fatally stupid? I’m willing to die for the cause, but I’d prefer something a little more heroic than tripping on a rock and alerting a metric horde of minions to our presence.”  
  
Willow glared at him.  
  
“I don’t like it,” she grumbled. “How many were you thinking?”  
  
“Two,” Buffy replied.  
  
“You and who else?” Tara asked cautiously.  
  
Willow gave her a _look_ , but Buffy showed no sign of being affected.  
  
“Anya,” she said simply.  
  
Anya, who had been poised to argue, closed her mouth without a word.  
  
Willow’s jaw dropped. Tara was visibly relieved. Xander looked torn between worried and proud.  
  
“I know you’d go, Will,” Buffy continued. “But Anya’s got a lot of experience to draw on with both magic and demons. It may give us an edge. Besides, I think you and Tara are too valuable to risk being captured. You’re something _he_ doesn’t have any experience with.”  
  
“There have been human sorcerers here,” Anya objected. “Angmar, for a start. They don’t call him the Witch King for nothing.”  
  
“I’m betting their kind of magic isn’t the same,” Buffy explained. “So I want to keep our witches as clear of Big Red as possible. Hold them as a surprise.”  
  
“That settles it then,” Xander said, before Willow could object. “But what are the three of us doing while you two go off adventuring? Also, what do we tell the brothers El if they show up again?”  
  
“I doubt they’ll come this close to the Big Bad,” Buffy shrugged. “Not east of the Harad Road.”  
  
“If you say so,” Xander shrugged, pouring himself another ale. “But what are we going to do?”  
  
“Meet us here,” Buffy said, pointing at a map. “It would be cool if you guys went around Mordor to the East, but if you think that’s too risky, you can always ride up through Ithilien and skirt the marshes.”  
  
Willow glared at her.  
  
“I know what you’re doing,” she said crossly. “You don’t need the reverse psychology. You could just _ask_ us to fill in the map to the east.”  
  
“No reverse psyching here, Will,” Buffy protested. “You three will be on your own to get to the rendezvous, and it’s unlikely I’ll be able to come running if you get into trouble. So it’s up to you to figure out what you think you can handle. Bear in mind we want to keep the magic to a minimum – the more magic, the more chance you get noticed.”  
  
Willow snorted.  
  
“We’ve been avoiding notice just fine so far,” she pointed out. “Pretty sure we can do the same all the way through Khand and up to the Sea of Rhun.”  
  
“Sea of Rhun,” Buffy murmured. “Does it make more sense to meet there?”  
  
“I’d say so,” Anya answered, after a moment pondering the map. “That’s an awful lot of blank space. And you’ve never been one to do the expected. So if Mr. I Can’t Keep Track Of My Jewelry is looking for an attack from the West, most likely from Minas Tirith or Lothlorien…”  
  
“I like it,” Buffy nodded. “Let’s do that. Meet up _here_.”  
  
She poked a finger at the space between the two southern arms of the inland sea.  
  
“We’ll give it another week or two here to prepare,” she added. “I have a few ideas how Anya and I can sneak in.”

\---

  
“Remind me again how much good we’re doing here?” Anya muttered.  
  
Buffy had killed two orcs who had the misfortune to be more observant (or maybe just more diligent) than their peers. They’d rolled the corpses into the ditch she and Anya had been hiding in – but not before stripping them of their clothes and anything else that might potentially be useful.  
  
In orcish clothing, with their hair pinned up under the rough hoods, they looked unremarkable from a distance. Up close, of course, they wouldn’t fool anyone. But ‘up close’ didn’t happen too often in this part of Nurn – Sauron apparently preferred to keep a buffer zone between the orc settlements they’ve been able to see from a distance, and the men who serve him, who don’t seem to go far beyond the Sea of Nurnen.  
  
The Men seem to be used for farming and bringing in supplies. As for the orcs… multiplying seemed to be their main business. That, more than anything, reassured Buffy that her suspicion that war wasn’t imminent just yet was correct. If Sauron was expecting war in the next few years, more of those orcs should be preparing for it.  
  
“We’re filling in a lot of useful detail on that map,” Buffy replied briskly. “Also, we’re almost to the Ash Mountains, and I’m pretty sure once we’re into the foothills, things will get a lot safer.”  
  
That’s what she’s been telling herself, anyway.  
  
“Meaning we’ll be able to wash?” Anya said hopefully.  
  
The clothes they’d appropriated from the orcs were… a little ripe, to put it charitably. _Very_ charitably. Orcs didn’t really do personal hygiene. Or laundry.  
  
“Wash, cook food, all that jazz,” Buffy sighed.  
  
The risk of their campfire being spotted as out of place was too high on the plains of Nurn, so they’ve been making due with cold food. Lembas might keep well, but lembas with little more than nuts, hard cheese, and cured meat made for a rather boring diet. (If they don’t find game or edible plants in the mountains, that diet will get even more boring as they run short on the non-lembas options...)  
  
“At least the water’s clean,” Anya sighed.  
  
“Even orcs have to have drinkable water,” Buffy agreed.  
  
Orcs might have a somewhat less strict definition of ‘drinkable’ – they’ve both seen orcs cheerfully drinking from streams neither elves nor men would touch – but for the most part, they did need clean water. It’s one of several things they’ve learned on this trip. Granted, it’s something elves like Celeborn, Elrond, and Thranduil might already know, but it had definitely _not_ been in any of the books the Scoobies had read. Neither had the fact that orcs were lousy swimmers.  
  
Buffy wasn’t sure about other elves, but she’d use that knowledge if the occasion ever prevented itself.


	13. Family History

Tindomiel wrinkled her nose at her sister in disgust.

“Ew! Seriously? You’ve taken up defending Celegorm now?”

Anariel shrugged. “I feel kinda sorry for him,” she said. “It just seems like chasing the Silmarils took him away from all the things that kept him sane, and most of the people he loved.”

“He still had Curufin,” pointed out Elladan, trying not to make a face.

Despite Anariel’s slightly quixotic sympathy for his older brother, the descendants of Luthien still had a marked dislike for Fëanor’s fifth son.

“Because anyone would count him as a force for good,” Anariel snorted.

“Why not?” Glorfindel asked patiently. “He was your grandmother’s favorite cousin.”

“No way!” Tindomiel gaped.

Her brothers looked appalled. Anariel’s jaw had actually dropped, so that she looked like a horrified statue. As she had a mouthful of blueberries, it made for an amusing picture.

“Á tyukta, winicë,” Gildor said, tapping her gently on the chin.

Anariel flashed him a startled look as she resumed chewing.

Gildor looked rather pleased with himself.

“Ha, it still works!” he grinned.

Anariel looked at him blankly.

The twins laughed.

“He used to do that to you when you were a baby,” Elrohir explained.

Now Anariel looked insulted.

“You were no trouble to feed, but you were easily distracted,” Gildor said with a shrug.

She looked at Glorfindel suspiciously, because her mother has told her he babysat her as a baby.

“He had diaper duty,” Elladan snickered.

“Yes, he lost the bet,” Gildor said serenely.

“What did you bet?” Anariel asked suspiciously, while Tindomiel nearly fell off her chair laughing.

“What color your hair would be. This was before you were born, of course,” Glorfindel explained in a long-suffering tone. “And you, with the same obstinate temperament you’ve shown ever since, had to go and have golden hair when I expected your head would be as dark as your sister’s and brothers’.”

She laughed.

“You bet against your own hair color?”

“I bet dark, which seemed more likely than light,” Glorfindel said defensively.

“He didn’t properly consider the odds,” Gildor explained. “Yes, dark hair seemed more likely, but Celeborn, Galadriel, and Eärendil are all fair haired. It would be strange indeed if your parents did not produce at least one light-haired child.”

“This is really just an elaborate way of rubbing in that you won, isn’t it?” Anariel sighed.

Gildor once again looked smug.

“Wait,” Tindomiel said. “You used to talk to her in Quenya when she was a baby? I thought they spoke Sindarin in Nargothrond!”

Gildor looked unperturbed.

“In public conversation, yes. But Atto wanted me to be able to speak his tongue – and anyway, Ammë had been speaking it to me, so it was easier for him to carry on and let me learn Sindarin from others.”

Tindomiel pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Our family is so weird,” she said.

Anariel and her brothers looked at her blankly.

“Come on, I can’t be the only one who’s had that thought,” Tindomiel protested, looking around at her siblings and older kinsmen.

“Our paternal grandmother turned into a bird, and her husband is a star,” she began. “Our mother calls her uncle’s adopted son ‘brother’ and we call him ‘uncle’, while he occasionally refers to our grandmother as ‘Mom’. Our actual uncle decided to be mortal, and died like two ages ago, yet he’s the blood relation to our ‘little brother’ who is really our first cousin sixty-three times removed. Said ‘little brother’ has recently gotten engaged to our sister. Not to mention the weirdness of our maternal grandmother’s father being the brother of our paternal grandfather’s great-grandfather, or the part where we call their other brother’s son ‘grandfather’ because he raised our dad after the bird and star thing. Oh, and that minor detail where various parts of the family have at times tried to kill other parts of the family.”

Anariel blinked.

“Ok, when you put it like that maybe it sounds a little weird,” she said slowly. She paused. “Sixty-three removes? Really?” 

“This never occurred to you before?” Tindomiel asked in disbelief, while the twins looked to be repressing laughter. “Not even a little?”

Anariel shook her head.

“No.”

“It doesn’t bother you at all?”

“Nope.”

Tindomiel gave her sister a skeptical look.

Anariel looked back steadily.

“What do you want me to say?” she asked. “The family tree being a little complicated doesn’t worry me.”

“What does bother you?” Tindomiel spluttered.

At Tindomiel’s posture of complete disbelief, Anariel sighed.

“I’m a simple creature. It’s not apocalypse season and no one’s trying to kill my family,” she shrugged. “Besides, if we’re going to talk about family history, why not focus on the cool parts? I like the bit where Ada’s great-grandmother waltzed in, curb-stomped Sauron, and then robbed Morgoth blind.”

Now it was Tindomiel’s turn to look startled.

“Seriously, _that_ was your takeaway from the Lay of Leithian?”

Anariel looked at her blankly.

“What else was I supposed to get from it? You can’t tell me you missed the part where someone who was only half-maia beat Sauron on his own turf and then counted coup on a vala.”

Tindomiel narrowed her eyes.

“Your mind works in the strangest ways. You ever come home and announce you’ve married Celegorm and you’re disowned,” she warned.

The twins did matching spit-takes while both the older elves laughed silently.

Anariel looked insulted.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Please don’t give her ideas,” Elladan said, wheezing slightly from where he’d choked on his drink. “You say things like that and she might actually do it.”

“At least with Curufin we know that is not an option,” Elrohir grumbled. “He is already married.”

“Also, a jerk,” Anariel muttered.

“And yet still your grandmother’s favorite cousin until she found out about his dealings at Nargothrond,” Glorfindel pointed out. “And that was a long-standing relationship, practically from the time she could walk.”

Tindomiel wrinkled her nose in distaste. Anariel looked around as if suddenly struck deaf.

“Did someone say something?” she asked innocently. “It’s so noisy out here with all the birds and the trees and the grass growing and whatnot.”

“His dealings at Nargothrond were really not so terrible as the chronicles would have it,” Gildor said thoughtfully.

Now even Glorfindel looked surprised, and Anariel abruptly dropped her selective deafness.

“Go on…” she said expectantly.

Gildor shrugged. “I mean only that while it was from a certain perspective very underhanded, I cannot fault him trying to keep Atto from becoming entangled in a quest for a Silmaril. I even tried to dissuade him myself. I did not understand at the time, but in light of Menegroth and Sirion, I think Curufin realized how deadly the Oath would become when there was a real prospect of recovering one of the jewels.”

Tindomiel rose.

“Not listening,” she announced. “Gotta keep some of my childhood certainties intact. Hobbits good, Sauron bad, Curufin manipulative jerk. Catch you guys later, I’m going to check on the pregnant ladies.”

Glorfindel shook his head as she headed off in the direction of Willow and Tara’s home.

“Now that the one among us who doesn’t want to listen is gone,” Anariel sighed, “are you saying you think Curufin was trying in a twisty way to avoid another Kinslaying?”

“He may have been," Gildor nodded thoughtfully. "The thing that strikes me when I look back at that time now is that I can find no malice toward myself, or Gil, or Findë. If he was truly bearing a grudge against the House of Finarfin, he should have been working against us also. Instead, he seemed positively pleased when he forced Artaresto to publicly commit to sending us away. He was angry that Findë insisted on staying and convinced her father to change his mind, but he put up no resistance to being cast out once he knew we would be sent away also.”

Anariel frowned, because this was rather at odds with the version generally found in the history books.

“How could Finduilas stay and you couldn’t?” she asked suspiciously. “I thought you were around the same age?”

Gildor shrugged.

“It is true Atto and Artaresto thought we were probably begotten within a year of each other,” he said. “But it is less that Finduilas was an adult, and more that she was the apple of her father’s eye. She did not want to go, and so she was not made to, though it would have proved better for her if she had.”

Gildor’s eyes turned bleak, for while he and Gil-Galad had survived the fall of the Falas and been evacuated to Balar with Cirdan and his folk, Finduilas had been less lucky in Nargothrond.

“I was persuaded not to make a similar stand because Gil was still so young, and it would be better for him to have as many familiar people as possible around, especially kin. Gil’s mother went with him, of course, but Artaresto was quite insistent that I should go too.”

Anariel frowned, and she was not the only one.

“What would the point have been?” Elrohir asked. “I form no judgement, but if Finrod was already dead, what was the advantage in forcing you to leave? The Silmaril would not have come to Nargothrond in any case.”

To their surprise it was Glorfindel who answered.

“Perhaps he thought that having lost the Silmaril, Morgoth would be provoked into moving against the Noldor,” he said pensively. “Remember, Morifinwë began construction of Amon Ereb not long after the Edain entered Beleriand, well before the Dagor Bragollach which is when it became needful. You may dislike your Fëanorion kin, but you cannot deny that they were rather good at anticipating the Enemy’s strategy. If he expected Nargothrond’s fall, it would be only sense to send his younger kin to whatever places of safety might still remain – and at that time, Cirdan was the last refuge.”

Anariel frowned and mentally calculated dates.

“It was only six years from the theft of the Silmaril to the Nirnaeth,” she mused. “But that was brought on as much by Maedhros as by Morgoth – he thought it was best to strike while the iron was hot. And Nargothrond was still safe at that point.”

“Not for very much longer,” Gildor reminded her. “And it would have seemed to be in greater peril if Curufin expected the secret of Nargothrond’s location would be given up to Morgoth by Atto or one of his companions in the quest for the Silmaril – had that happened, it would certainly have fallen sooner than the Falas, even without Turin. And he probably reckoned that his son would go wherever Gil and I went, for Celebrimbor was fond of both of us.”

If that was the case, Curufin had guessed correctly, for his son had disowned him and remained in Nargothrond – but only until his younger kinsmen had departed for the Falas.

Both the twins’ faces looked rather as if they had just sucked on a lemon. Their younger sister laughed.

“It is not only Tindomiel who does not like having to think well of Curufin!” she said, looking at her brothers. “But it is all speculation anyway. Think as you like of him, it will be many years before any of us come face to face with him to demand he account for his actions.”

“And when that blessed day is upon us, your grandmother will most definitely be first in line,” Glorfindel muttered.


	14. Armor

Galadriel looked at the armor, shining on its form, pristine and unmarked. It was newly made, and awaited her approval. It had been many years in the making, since unlike most elven armor, this set was made to withstand fire. It had been devised with a specific purpose in mind, a mission its maker hoped to live through – though Galadriel suspected she would undertake it all the same, even if she knew she would not.  
  
The Lady of Lothlorien reached a careful finger out to trace the heraldry on the chest. The sun of her grandfather Finwë had been superimposed on the blue background and star of Eärendil. But in between the rays, crests that most in Middle Earth would no longer recognize had been painted with a careful hand. Only two would be recognizable to any save masters of lore – Luthien’s cornflower, and Galadriel’s own crest. She was certain the placement was no accident – hers lay closest to the bearer’s heart.   
  
The others are people her grandchildren have never met, names they have been taught, but that are more history than family to any of them save perhaps Arwen. But her golden haired granddaughter puts more stock in the things she knows to be true, the people who are dear to her, than in names from histories.   
  
Anariel has chosen with care – every crest represented on her armor is there for a reason, proclaiming her descent from the princes of the Noldor and from Luthien, the union of the lines of Finarfin and Fingolfin with that of Thingol and Melian. It is a lineage that would have given Morgoth pause. It should make Sauron tremble.   
  
The eyes that looked to Galadriel for approval were anxious, and impossibly young to be contemplating marching to war. But her little Anariel had returned to Arda already an adult in nearly all the ways that mattered. True, none who looked on her would ever mistake her for full Eldar, not with her height and her ears. Her brothers and sisters may look like any other elf, but she will always be the anomaly, the reminder that the Peredhil are like and yet unlike their fully elven kin. But in spirit…  
  
In spirit she was every bit the scion of Finwë, Olwë, and Elwë her armor declared her. Though it was interesting that other than Finwë and Eärendil, everyone she referenced was female – it was her foremothers, not her forefathers, that she chose to showcase. Luthien, Idril, Indis, Galadriel, Eärwen…  
Galdriel’s eye was caught by the last of the crests tucked between the rays, one which few would recognize and fewer still would not scorn.  
  
“Nerdanel, pitya?” she asked, amused.   
  
“I wasn’t going to give Fëanor the honor,” her granddaughter replied tartly, making the face that always accompanied any mention of Miriel’s son.   
  
Celeborn had laughed for a quarter of an hour the first time he’d seen it, before pointing out to his considerably less amused wife that it was nearly identical to the face she’d spent years training herself not to make on hearing her uncle’s name.  
  
“I do wish you would bring Makalaurë to me,” Galadriel murmured, knowing full well why her aunt merited inclusion on Anariel Nairallë’s battle armor.   
  
“He won’t come,” Anariel shrugged. “I can’t even persuade him to go to Imladris. Lothlorien is further still from his usual haunts. And he’s only given up trying to avoid me because I’ve proved he can’t.”  
  
Nerdanel’s surviving son leads a solitary existence, although both his foster son and his cousin have begged him to reconsider and accept the hospitality of one or the other. Galadriel has instructed her grandchildren to make as great a nuisance of themselves as they dare in the name of cajoling their ‘grandfather’ to rejoin his kin. She knew that Tindomiel, at least, has taken it to heart. But if Anariel cannot persuade him, it is likely no one will.  
  
“I am proud of you, my brave one,” Galadriel said quietly.   
  
Anariel looked startled.  
  
“What brought this on?” she asked nervously.  
  
“Does a grandmother require a reason to express pride in her granddaughter?” Galadriel asked, amused.  
  
Anariel arched a single eyebrow and waited. She was at long last beginning to master elven patience.  
  
“I have seen enough of our family march to war through the ages, pitya. Many of them left without hearing such words from those dear to them.”  
  
Anariel hugged her fiercely, knowing which way her thoughts turned.  
  
“I do not plan on dying, Grandmother,” she assured her.  
  
“None of the princes of the Noldor planned on dying, my little love,” Galadriel whispered into her hair.   
  
Yet died they had, one by one, until she was the only one left. Argon, Aredhel, Angrod, Aegnor, Finrod, Fingon, Turgon, Laurefindil… her half-cousins as well. Of all of them, the only one who had intended to die was Maedhros. And even he had come to that only after hundreds of years of loss and heartbreak, watching the others fall one by one. She cannot fault him that his courage finally failed when faced with the prospect that he might see Makalaurë’s end as well.  
  
She has wept for them all over the years, from Arakano who she could still call by name, to her great-nephew Gil-galad, who had spoken Quenya so seldom that it often seemed to take him a moment to recollect that _Artanáro_ meant him.   
  
Never had Thingol’s edict seemed as cruel as when she mourned her brothers by names her parents would not have recognized. Celeborn, knowing how sharply the loss of her language as well as her kin cut, at those times always called her Alatariel when they were alone, the only small way he knew to ease her pain.   
  
And now she was afraid that before Sauron was defeated, Anariel will be another name to add to the list of those who have heard Namo’s call, victims of the Doom.   
  
They say the Doom was lifted at the end of the First Age, but Galadriel had difficulty believing that. Not when she thought on Celebrimbor’s body, and that he came to that end because he wished to heal the ills of Middle Earth, to undo in whatever small way he could the damage wrought by the war and tumult of the First Age. He had been but an innocent child at the time of the Exile, who had slain no kin. His only sin had been to be his father’s son, a member of the House of Fëanor.   
  
_To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well…_  
  
But if this is what is required to defeat Sauron, to destroy him utterly, Galadriel would not shrink from it. She had long ago set herself the task of seeing the Enemy defeated – when Enemy had meant Morgoth, not his shadow. Anariel is of one mind with her on this matter, though her granddaughter’s methods differ. Artanis had become Galadriel, and shaped herself into a commander, but one who rarely took the field. Anariel had still to learn that one could command from anywhere but the midst of the battle.   
  
_Do you watch me yet, O Exalted Ones? Does it delight you to see how freely I yield up that which is dearest to me? What sterner test can you demand of me, Doomsman? I could forgo the One Ring itself with greater ease._  
  
She will not say it out loud, though. She will not add to her granddaughter’s burden.  
  
For Anariel, though she was often accused of fearing nothing, had her own fears – most of which centered around harm to those she loves, her mortal brother and sisters especially. Tara's death had shaken her badly. The years of a mortal life were short enough as the elves count them, and it was possible that the _Scoobies_ might not return from this war. But Xander, Willow, and Anya would march with her all the same.  
  
Perhaps hunting Balrogs sounded less fearsome after you had already taken the decision to leave your entire world behind for the unknown.  
  
“I cannot promise I will not die,” Anariel told her thoughtfully. “But I think it is safe to promise that I will at least take any valaraukar I find with me.”  
  
“You do not have to do this, pitya,” Galadriel said quietly. “No one is asking it of you.”  
  
 _None would dare. To the Noldor, you are the littlest scion of Finwë – Grandfather’s dauntless spirit hiding in a slip of an elfling. To the Sindar, you are both princess and hero – they have seen how you fight, but still they would keep you from all harm._  
  
Anariel snorted.  
  
“No one else realized it was a thing that needed doing, so of course they wouldn’t ask it,” she replied blithely. “But it’s ok. I know I don’t have to do it. I don’t have to do anything anymore. It’s not like it was in California. It’s not some mystical destiny. It’s a choice.”  
  
Galadriel did not dispute the characterization, but she did not agree. Anariel may be the most Sindarin of her grandchildren, with her disdain for Noldor formality and outright bafflement at some of their laws and customs, but she was Noldo in this at least: she would never back down from a challenge. She might believe that Nolofinwë had been foolish to call Morgoth forth to single combat, but Galadriel has begun to suspect that her granddaughter planned to eventually do something remarkably similar.   
  
She could hear the excuse already –“I had a better plan!”  
  
“There are still other paths you might choose,” Galadriel reminded her.  
  
To her surprise, Anariel did consider her words.  
  
“Yes, but they’re all worse. Adar has forbidden me to go near the Ring, so I can’t try to destroy it directly. Even if I did, it probably wouldn’t go well. Sauron expects someone like me to be given that mission. I’ve felt his eye on me often enough as it is of late. I already fear I may have drawn too much attention to Erebor, staying there so long, but it could not be helped – I needed Kili’s assistance, for many of our most skilled smiths have already sailed. I know I could not reach Orodruin without being discovered, and I know my way around Mordor better than anyone on our side.”  
  
Galadriel must force herself to remain calm at that reminder of one of Anariel’s most ill-considered exploits.   
  
“I can’t abandon my friends on the shore of Middle Earth to sail off to Valinor, so that’s no good, and even if I could, I’d think worse of myself for running away from a fight,” Anariel continued. “And who will deal with the balrogs if I don’t?”  
  
“You could take more than just your mortal siblings with you,” Galadriel pointed out.  
  
“Glorfindel has agreed to ride with us,” Anariel replied. “Who else should I take? I can’t take an army. Every elf that rides with me is one less to defend Lothlorien, the Greenwood, or Imladris. And even if I could, an army would only draw attention. I mean to bleed Sauron’s strength before he even knows I’m there.”  
  
Anariel smiled at the thought.   
  
On her granddaughter, it’s almost impish, but Galadriel has seen that same smile – equal parts cocky, mischief, the rightness of the cause, and the glow of adventure – on all her older brothers’ faces. She had no good answer to it, but as the baby, the youngest, the little sister, they would not have listened even if she had. They smiled, they rode away, and they died.  
  
Her granddaughter knows her fears, and could clearly follow her thought, because this time she did not reply out loud, but in her mind.  
  
 _To die will be an awfully big adventure,_ she whispered.  
  
Galadriel tried not to be alarmed by the choice of verb, for the thought had the flavor of childhood song, one returned to for comfort and courage – even if she herself did not see how it was comforting.  
  
 _Though I do not mean to have quite that big an adventure if I can help it,_ Anariel continued. _Balrogs and Sauron should be enough, don’t you think? I know what I’m getting into far better than even Uncle Findarato did. I’ve never seen the Trees, but I have seen dark creatures, and not just here in Ennor. I know about fighting them, and it’s not like this one will be a surprise. I’ve done the research. I’m going to be as ready as I can make me._  
  
“It is good armor,” Galadriel said at last. “If it does as the King Under the Mountain tells you it will, perhaps the Sindar will at last lay down their old grudge.”


End file.
